


Hope

by sandwastesinthevoidofmychest



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acid Attack, Aftermath, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Protective Greg Lestrade, greg and mycroft reuinite, greg is left behind, mycroft disappears after being attacked, sherlock and john are extremely not good beware, they're so in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest
Summary: After being the victim of an acid attack, Mycroft disappears from his previous life and his partner, Greg Lestrade.Greg is present at the first public outing that Mycroft makes since the attack. Their reunion is full of hope and love.





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> tw: while there are no graphic details/descriptions of the attack, Mycroft does have a brief nightmare near the end of the fic that references it. If you feel that this may make you uncomfortable in any way, please don't read it and stay safe <3

Mycroft struggles slightly as he gets to his feet. 

The people around him at the table avert their eyes, they haven’t spoken to him all night. 

He’s halfway down the hall, doesn’t even know who they are. He doesn’t care. 

He hadn’t been invited to the ceremony, only the afterparty. 

A large part of him wishes that he didn’t care, that he could have just stayed at home. 

Recover. 

But he had cared. 

 

He should have left when he saw the seating plan, when he saw he wasn’t going to be anywhere near the couple. 

It was like one more kick when he was already on the damn ground. 

But there was a part of him that _hoped._

He was a fool. 

 

He’d caught Sherlock’s eye once, and the subtle smirk on his face told him everything he needed to know. It was planned like this. 

 

Mycroft had wanted to turn and leave right there, but he didn’t want to give Sherlock that victory. 

 

During the speeches, Mycroft had made eye contact with Greg Lestrade, his breath catching in his throat as the man stared at him in confusion, a sort of disbelief. 

When everyone was seated again, he dared to look over to the top table again, and found Greg watching him carefully, when he saw Mycroft look in his direction, he nodded once with a gentle smile, eyes sad before Sherlock had quickly and purposely called him into conversation. 

 

Mycroft grasped onto his walking stick, taking a champagne flute with him out onto the balcony. 

He was surprised, but secretly pleased that there was no one else out here. The air had a bitter frost to it, and it was already pitch black. He breathed in the cold air, chest heavy, body heavier. 

He made his way slowly to the edge of the balcony, placing his glass on top of the railing, leaning his body into it to take the pressure off his leg. 

 

He was tempted to call his car, but knew that having booked his room and not staying in it would be another victory for Sherlock in the morning. 

 

Mycroft hadn’t been out in public in months. After the attack, he’d had to adopt a walking stick; it offered far more support than his umbrella, but he felt it made him look helpless, powerless. 

Any meetings he’d been in had been carefully arranged over Skype, video conferences, and the like. 

 

He should have known better than to come here. He thought that perhaps it would be different this time; it was meant to be a happy occasion. 

His brother finally had everything he could wish for, and he was marrying John Watson. 

Mycroft stared out over the balcony, there was a pond freezing over, only lit by small lights in the centre of the sprawling gardens. 

Instead, it only got worse. 

 

Mycroft had felt humiliated having not been invited to the ceremony. 

Somehow not being put at the very back of the hall was a small mercy. 

But Mycroft knew it had been deliberately planned this way; place him at a table with strangers who no doubt knew he was the groom’s brother. 

The thing was, John had allowed it too. 

His grip tightened around the thin railing, the coldness of it sending an ache up his arm but he didn’t care. 

 

Eight months ago, following the attack he had disappeared, he knew no one would miss him; perhaps not even notice he was gone. 

Today, well today had really convinced him so. 

 

He drops his head, closing his eyes in attempt to stem the tears. 

Mycroft wishes the emptiness in his chest could just hurry up and swallow him whole.  
A large part of him wishes that he could have just been lucky back then, that the attack had killed him. 

But somehow his damn heart had continued beating. 

 

His hand shakes as he finishes his glass of champagne, he shouldn’t even be drinking with the strength of the painkillers that he’s on. 

He stares out at the frozen pond and wonders where he went wrong. 

He’d only ever cared for his brother. 

 

Then there’s Greg.

Mycroft can’t get Greg’s kind smile from his mind’s eye. 

The man had been everything to him; it terrified him. 

They saw each other almost daily, but when he thought that maybe, maybe things were starting to turn up for him, for them, the attack happened. 

He hadn’t seen Greg in months. 

 

Of course Mycroft knew that Greg had tried to visit him numerous times, contact him even, search for him. 

But Mycroft had done everything he could to not have the man see him at his weakest. 

 

Surely, _surely_ Mycroft knew that Greg was going to be here today. 

A small voice tells him that perhaps that’s why he came here at all. 

It was common knowledge that Greg had been chosen as the best man for both Sherlock and John. 

 

Mycroft closes his eyes when he thinks of the feel of Greg’s warm lips against his skin; a memory he’ll never let himself forget. 

 

Why did he come here? 

Was there really just that little bit of hope still burning somewhere deep inside him?

Clearly Greg had not been expecting to see him. 

Perhaps…

 

He hears the party inside grow louder for a split second, as though someone had opened the door to come out onto the balcony. 

Mycroft’s heart takes off, the slight possibility that it might be Greg too much to handle. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t look behind him. He can’t. 

And he feels it then, that little flame of hope. It’s still there. 

 

Aftera few seconds of silence, no sound of another’s footsteps, Mycroft thinks that perhaps he’s hearing things, hope is messing with his brain. 

Sentiment is making him naive. 

He closes his eyes tightly, sighing deeply. 

The thought of having to walk back inside to get to his room is very nearly torture. 

 

“You’ll catch your death out here.” 

The sudden voice makes Mycroft startle, he turns his head slightly and sees Greg by the door, staring at him worriedly. There’s care in his expression and Mycroft feels a lump form in his throat. 

 

“Perhaps that’s the point.” 

“No-“ Greg’s voice breaks, “Don’t say that.” 

Mycroft can’t bear to look at the other man, and turns back to staring at the frozen pond. 

Tries to remind himself that people call him the ice man for a reason.

 

Greg’s footsteps are quiet and measured and all of a sudden Mycroft is being shrouded by warmth. He looks down confused, only to see Greg has wrapped his long coat around his shoulders. Mycroft can’t help but to inhale the scent that is uniquely Greg. 

“Please.” Greg whispers, his hands still on Mycroft’s shoulders, keeping the coat in place. 

 

Mycroft nods once, almost in defeat and he’s taken aback when Greg pulls him into a warm hug. 

Greg buries his head in Mycroft’s shoulder and Mycroft freezes completely. 

Mycroft hears Greg make a muffled noise from his shoulder. When it happens again, Mycroft can’t help but think it’s a sob. 

Slowly he manages to move his arms, wrapping them around Greg, holding him close. 

 

“Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs, surprised when Greg’s arms tighten around him more. 

“Just-“ Greg’s voice falls away, and there’s another strangled noise. Mycroft’s heart aches. 

 

“He told me that you’d moved out of the country, that he didn’t know where you were. That you were probably dead now.” Greg’s voice is still heeded by Mycroft’s shoulder, “And the bastard-“ This time the sob was more prominent. “How dare he.” 

 

Greg pulls back to look across at Mycroft, tears running down his cheeks. 

Mycroft reaches out to try and wipe them away. 

Greg shakes his head, taking Mycroft’s hand in both of his. “You’re coming with me.” 

“Gregory?”

“You are. Right now.” Greg turns towards the door. “Please, Myc.” 

Mycroft can’t argue, he grabs onto his walking stick and Greg stands at his side, linking arms with him. 

 

When they get back to the party, Greg doesn’t look at anyone, if he notices people staring he doesn’t acknowledge them. He walks at Mycroft’s pace, determinedly towards the way out of the hall. 

Mycroft sees people watch them both and right before leaving the hall, he sees Sherlock glance over and his face lose any colour it had a second before. 

 

Greg leads Mycroft to the elevator, and when they’re in the small space, tears begin to slide down Greg’s cheeks again. Mycroft opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come out. 

“Don’t.” Greg whispers, sliding his hand into Mycroft’s free one. “Please.” 

Mycroft intertwines their fingers as the elevator doors open. Greg walks them down the hallway, stopping before a door and taking a keycard out of his pocket, unlocking it to let them both in. 

 

When the door closes behind them, Greg presses Mycroft against it. 

Greg’s eyes are bloodshot and still filled with tears, and Mycroft drops his walking stick so that he can bring up both his hands to caress Greg’s face. 

They both flinch at the sound of the walking stick clashing against the wooden floor.

Greg closes his eyes, bringing his head forward, pressing his forehead against Mycroft’s. 

 

“Why couldn’t you let me in?” Greg’s voice is barely a whisper, and Mycroft can hear the hurt in it. 

Mycroft is lost for words, he just shakes his head. 

“I searched for you, everywhere.” Greg murmurs, “You’d erased anything to do with yourself.”

“You shouldn’t have…you could have lost your job.” Mycroft murmurs, the thought of Greg losing everything he’d worked for just to see him horrifies him. 

Of course Mycroft had ensured that nothing would come back on Greg, that his job would never be at risk. 

Greg’s breathing is uneven, and Mycroft can only continue to hold him. 

“Myc-“ Greg’s voice falters again, “I wouldn’t have cared, I wanted to be there for you.” 

 

Mycroft remains silent, he can feel tears prick his own eyes. 

They just stand there foreheads resting against each other. 

 

“I couldn’t let you see me like that.” Mycroft murmurs. It’s the truth. 

Greg inhales shakily, “Mycroft.” 

Mycroft tightens his arms around Greg, pulling him up against his body. 

Greg’s warmth comes as a shock to Mycroft, he hasn’t allowed anyone this close to him since. 

“I didn’t even know if you were still alive.” Greg’s voice is small and it sends a shock of guilt through Mycroft. “Sherlock said you were dead.”

“I couldn’t...”

Greg shakes his head, burying it in Mycroft’s shoulder, inhaling his scent. 

“I love you.” Greg’s voice is muffled against Mycroft’s suit. “I was mourning for you.”

Mycroft rubs what he hopes are soothing circles on Greg’s back. Those three words hitting him like a blow to the chest. 

“I apologise.”

“No, just-“ Greg takes a shaky breath. “Let me in.” 

Mycroft closes his eyes, biting his lip. 

“Please.” Greg raises his head to meet Mycroft’s uneasy gaze. 

“Alright.” Mycroft breathes, how did he ever manage to convince himself he didn’t need this man?

Greg presses the ghost of a kiss against his cheek, but Mycroft pulls him back in. 

 

Greg’s lips brushing against his own bring back the memories, the sensations of their time together. The familiarity warms his heart slightly, if that’s even possible. 

When Greg pulls back, his eyes are sad. “Call your car, we’re going back to mine.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 

“I would drive but I’ve had a drink.” He explains, “And Christ do I need to get the fuck away from here. I think you do too.”

Mycroft nods, Greg has a point. The further away from Sherlock and John, the better. 

“Right, I’ll just pack my stuff, then we’ll collect yours.”

Mycroft watches him carefully, and Greg shoots him a wry smile, “I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to lose you again.” 

As Greg bustles around the room, Mycroft calls his driver. 

“He said he can be here in half an hour.” He watches Greg stuff the few clothes he had strewn across the bed into a hold-all. 

“Great.” He glances around the room, “Right, that’s me. Let’s get your things.” 

When Greg closes the door behind them, his hand steals into Mycroft’s. 

“You’re still freezing.” 

Mycroft shrugs, “The ice man, as they say.”

“You’re far from that and you know it.” 

Mycroft glances at Greg, who’s staring at him determinedly, ready to challenge any protest that Mycroft may have. 

“You’ve always seen the best in me.” Mycroft murmurs, as they stop before a door that Mycroft opens with his keycard. 

“I see who you really are, that’s why.” 

 

Greg leans against the door, watching Mycroft as he moves around the room. When Mycroft glances back at him, he sees the sadness in Greg’s face. When Greg meets his gaze, he manages a smile. 

Mycroft has never felt guiltier. 

Greg’s phone ringing breaks the silence and Mycroft watches Greg look at the caller ID before turning his phone off completely. He glances across at Mycroft, his body clearly tenser than before. “Your brother.” 

Mycroft nods, feeling his own phone vibrate in his pocket. He takes it out and sighs in relief. “Our car is here.” 

Greg comes over to him, taking up his suitcase. “Let’s get out of here then.” He leans in close to Mycroft, pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

They link arms and Mycroft holds on tight to his walking stick. 

 

They get to the lobby in silence, Greg’s hand holding on to Mycroft’s, the warmth of his skinis almost intoxicating. They drop their keycards at the reception without words and they're almost at the entrance when Greg’s name is called.

Greg and Mycroft both freeze, they turn slowly and Sherlock and John are standing a few meters away. 

“Don’t you dare.” Greg’s voice is rough, and Mycroft sees the receptionist raise her head. 

Seeing the bitter smile on Sherlock’s face sends anxiety raining down on him. Greg knows him so well, that he leans into him. 

“We were doing you a favour.” John says, sounding sure of himself. 

Greg gapes at them, “What? By telling me my partner was _dead_?” 

John averts his gaze, but Sherlock remains standing tall. “Well he didn’t seem to care enough to let you know he was alive. He’s a poison that is better out of your life.” 

Greg’s hand tightens on Mycroft’s, “Perhaps _you_ were the poison all along. Both of you.”

John’s head snaps up, anger on his face. 

Greg points at Sherlock, “If it wasn’t for me, you would have been dead in some crack house years ago.” Then he points at John, “I was there when he jumped, I mourned with you, and what? You wanted to put me through that too? We were meant to be mates.”

“Greg-“

“No.” Greg interrupts, “You both never had anything good to say about our relationship, and you have made Mycroft’s life hell for years. Go back to your party. We’re leaving.” 

Greg turns, leading Mycroft out of the door, he’s still holding tight to Mycroft. 

“Gregory-“ 

“Don’t apologise.” Greg murmurs, “Just let me in, it’s all I ask.”

Mycroft’s driver takes their luggage from Greg, greeting them both with a nod. 

 

In the car, Greg sits against Mycroft’s side, pressed into him. 

Mycroft notices his driver smile to himself when Greg gives his address. He’s probably already let Anthea know. Although Mycroft suspects she already knows. She had been suspiciously encouraging about attending the wedding despite her dislike of Sherlock.Mycroft sees why now. 

Greg’s examining Mycroft’s face, his eyes trailing over every inch of him. It’s as though he’s trying to memorise him, his eyes are wide and attentive, it’s as though he never expected to see Mycroft again. Mycroft realises with a heartbreaking clarity that that’s exactly what Greg thought. 

Mycroft leans in and kisses Greg softly, barely brushing his lips against Greg’s and he hears Greg inhale shakily, before the kiss is returned. 

 

The hand that’s not intertwined with Mycroft’s ends up cradling his face, Greg’s fingers rough and calloused against Mycroft’s skin. Greg presses his lips against Mycroft’s, and Mycroft allows him to deepen the kiss, the familiar taste of Greg; coffee and tobacco, makes Mycroft feel safe. 

Greg’s breath is hot and heavy against Mycroft’s face, and he feels goosebumps rise on his body, shivering slightly. 

Greg pulls back, and Mycroft can see tear tracks down his cheeks and his heart aches for the other man. 

“I love you, Mycroft.” Greg whispers, “Nothing will ever change that. Nothing.” 

Mycroft kisses Greg again, almost a ghost of a kiss. 

They spend the rest of the journey in silence, Greg’s arms around him, Greg’s head resting on his shoulder. 

 

When the car comes to a stop outside Greg’s apartment block, Greg waves off Mycroft’s driver. 

“S’okay Tim, I’ll get the bags. No need to come out into the cold.”

Tim smiles gratefully, glancing at Mycroft. “And collection, Sir?” 

Mycroft looks to Greg for an answer. 

“We’ll call, but definitely take tomorrow off. Have some time to yourself.” Greg says easily. 

“Thank you, Greg.” Tim manages, unconcealed surprise on his face. 

“No problem.” Greg walks around the car to open Mycroft’s door. He holds out his hand. “Coming love?” 

Mycroft only nods, taking hold of Greg’s hand as he helps him out of the car. 

Greg grabs their cases from the boot of the car and links arms with Mycroft as they walk towards the building. 

“How are you feeling?” Greg asks as they wait for the elevator. 

“Tired.” Mycroft murmurs. 

“Me too.” 

 

Greg’s apartment has a distinctly unused feel to it. It’s clean, but seems empty. 

Greg helps Mycroft out of his coat and seems to catch onto Mycroft’s thoughts; something he always seemed to be able to do. 

“Haven’t really spent much time here in the last few months.” Greg murmurs, “Only sleep really. Other than that, I’ve been working all the time.” He shrugs, “Distraction, I guess.” 

Mycroft feels another stab of guilt run through him. “I’m sorry-“

Greg shakes his head, caressing Mycroft’s cheek. “Ssh, what did I say about apologies?” 

Mycroft reaches out to Greg and Greg gathers him in a warm hug. 

“Go get out of that suit, I’ll make us some tea.” Greg picks up their suitcases and brings them into the bedroom. 

Closed away in the bathroom, Mycroft faces himself in the mirror. 

He’s worryingly pale. The dark circles under his eyes are pronounced. 

He leans up against the sink and splashes cold water on his face. 

What did he actually expect to happen? Certainly not this. 

He limps towards his suitcase, getting out a pair of pyjamas. They’re a soft flannel, he’s been finding silk sweats him now. Affects his leg. 

He drops each item of clothing onto the floor. The new suit he’d gotten fitted for. He doesn’t want to see it again, he doesn’t want to remember Sherlock’s sly smile, anything about the evening that wasn’t Gregory. 

 

When Mycroft returns to the sitting room, he can see Greg leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s staring off into space, head turned. He’s taken off his suit jacket and discarded his tie. He always did hate wearing ties, Mycroft remembers fondly. It strikes Mycroft that Greg has lost a lot of weight, he also looks like he hasn’t slept properly in months. It strikes Mycroft again that Greg probably _hasn’t_ slept properly in months because of him. Eight months to be precise. Mycroft hasn’t slept either. But that’s no excuse. 

 

Having left his walking stick in the bedroom, his movements are almost silent. He still has a limp, and putting more pressure on his leg is distinctly uncomfortable. Highly encouraged by his physiotherapist, but Mycroft finds it difficult in practice; painful. 

Greg only snaps out of his thoughts when he notices Mycroft shuffle into the kitchen. 

Seeing Mycroft limping brings a strange expression to Greg’s face, some deep sadness. 

“Alright?” 

Mycroft only nods, not sure what he can say to make any of what he’s done excusable. 

“Want anything to eat?” Greg asks, turning back to the two mugs sitting beside the kettle. 

“No thank you.”

“Jaffa cakes?” While Greg has his back to Mycroft, Mycroft can hear the slight smile in his voice. 

Mycroft leans against the doorframe, his heart picking up pace. “You hate Jaffa cakes.”

“Yeah, but you love them.” Greg murmurs, discarding the tea bags. “Always hoped.” 

Mycroft feels tears prick his eyes, “Then yes, I’ll have some.” 

“I’ll bring them in with the tea, go sit on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable.” 

 

Mycroft sits down on the sofa, glancing around. The only thing that’s really changed is that Greg’s bookshelf, which was already almost full, is now overflowing. There are books stacked in short piles on the floor. Other than that, nothing is different to what he remembers. 

He listens to Greg potter around the kitchen, noticing it’s taking longer than it should. 

His worry is confirmed when Greg appears with a plate of Jaffa cakes and Mycroft’s tea. His eyes are teary, and Mycroft knows he’s been crying again. He wants to say something, anything. 

Greg smiles at him, that gentle, friendly smile that Mycroft fell in love with at the very beginning. 

“Be right back.” Greg murmurs, disappearing into his room. 

Mycroft leans forward to take up his tea with a Jaffa. Taking his first sip he feels himself relax. Greg always made the best tea, it was comforting then but even more so now. 

 

When Greg returns, he’s in an old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He goes to get his tea and comes back, sitting down beside Mycroft, so close that their arms touch. 

Mycroft’s heart aches. 

“Is it painful?” Greg asks as he leans into Mycroft. 

Mycroft nods, “I’m still taking painkillers, which I shouldn’t be to this extent.” 

Greg stares at the coffee table in front of them, silent. “And the walking stick?” He asks after a few seconds. 

“I’m still in physio. The pressure is uncomfortable. There was quite a bit of muscle damage.” 

“Of course.” Greg murmurs. “Skin graft too?” 

Mycroft glances at Greg curiously. 

Greg doesn’t meet his eyes. “Been doing a lot of research.” He mumbles, “Hopeful again. Figured you’d get the best treatment available. More specific specialist care. Less risk of infection or any other dangers. Meant you’d still most likely be alive.” 

“Gregory...” 

“Don’t.” Greg whispers, “Please.” 

 

 

A silence falls over them, and Mycroft watches Greg so carefully. 

He’s almost afraid to speak, to break this fragile thing between them. 

Greg holds his mug of tea in both hands, he’s looking down at it as though it’s going to give him the answer to something. Mycroft notices the slight tremor in Greg’s hands. The surface of the tea ripples. Mycroft delicately places his own mug on the table in front of them.

Greg doesn’t appear to notice it until Mycroft takes Greg’s mug from him and places it beside his own. 

 

Mycroft covers Greg’s hands with his own and Greg raises his head to make eye-contact. 

Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat. He’s gotten lost in those dark eyes so many times. 

He wants to apologise. To even begin to show how sorry he is. 

But that won’t be welcome and Mycroft knows this. 

 

“Were you ever going to come back?” 

Mycroft’s heart aches when he hears the quiver in Greg’s voice. 

“I’d thought about it, frequently.” 

Greg stares at their hands. “And me?” He whispers.

Mycroft tightens his grip on Greg. “I watched over you. Constantly.” 

Greg closes his eyes, “I didn’t want that,” He murmurs raising his head, meeting Mycroft’s eyes again. “I wanted _you_. I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to go through this with you. Myc,” Greg takes a shaky breath, “I love you. I loved you before, and I still love you now. I never stopped. I never will stop.”

Mycroft reaches to wipe away a tear from Greg’s cheek. “I was always amazed by the love you showed me.”

 

Greg shakes his head, “And you thought I’d stop?”

“A damaged leg, constant pain-“

“So are you telling me that if I was injured on duty, if I was attacked, would you leave me? Would you stop loving me?” Greg interrupts. 

Mycroft shakes his head, “Certainly not.” 

“Then why, why would you think that I would?”

Mycroft pulls Greg into an embrace, burying his head on Greg’s shoulder. “I may have miscalculated.” He murmurs. 

“May have?” Greg shakes his head. “You are an idiot, Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Indeed.” Mycroft mumbles, pressing his lips against Greg’s neck. “Life has not been the same without you.”

Greg strokes Mycroft’s back, taking a shaky breath he whispers, “I’ve been an empty shell without you, Myc.” 

 

Mycroft knows not to apologise; Greg has made it clear that he doesn’t want to hear it. 

Mycroft pulls back from Greg reluctantly, he still holds onto Greg’s arms, and Greg’s hands fall to Mycroft’s waist. 

“I’ve made the most horrific mistake of my life.” Mycroft confesses, “Can you ever bring yourself to forgive me?” 

Greg’s expression is almost pained, he raises his hands to caress Mycroft’s cheeks. 

“Mycroft Holmes.” There’s a determined look in his eyes, “I love you. You clearly can’t see how much you truly mean to me, but hell, I will die trying to show you if I need to.”  
Mycroft opens his mouth to say something, but Greg shakes his head. 

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No matter what, I’m going to be here. But you need to let me in, because I honestly couldn’t go through this again.” Greg’s voice breaks. 

Mycroft pulls Greg into a hug, holding him tightly. 

“Never.” He whispers, “I promise.” 

Greg hums, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“I love you, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is clearer than it has been all night, and the words flow out so easily. It’s as though they’ve spent the last eight months waiting to escape him. 

“Come to bed.” is Greg’s whispered response.

 

They get ready for bed slowly, without any rush. 

Greg pulls back the duvet for Mycroft, and when Mycroft gets in, Greg opens his arms for Mycroft. 

They curl up together in the dim light of the bedside lamp. 

Greg cards his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft shivers, still getting used to touch. 

“Okay?” Greg whispers, his fingers stilling. 

Mycroft nods, “Just-just getting used to it.” 

“God, I never thought I’d get to do this again.” Greg murmurs, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. “I’m never going to let you go.” 

“You’ll have work.” Mycroft attempts to lighten the atmosphere. 

Greg gifts Mycroft with another kiss. “I have at least three weeks holidays that I’m overdue. I’m taking them now.” 

“You’re absurd.” 

Greg chuckles, “I’m yours.” Mycroft’s heart soars at the sound of Greg’s laughter, it’s like magic.

Mycroft shifts in Greg’s arms, so that he brings himself face to face with the other man. 

“And I am yours. I love you, Gregory.” 

Greg’s answering smile is glorious, eyes bright. “No matter what, we face it together.” 

Mycroft nods, running his fingers through Greg’s hair. “Always.” His voice shakes with emotion. 

Greg’s happiness is clear upon his face, “C’mere.” He pulls Mycroft into a kiss. 

They whisper sweet nothings, eight months worth of sweet nothings to each other as they fall into a restful sleep. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes open to a darkened room, he can’t breathe. He’s shaking and he’s fairly sure he’s reliving the attack. He clenches his teeth, he can feel his leg burning, he can feel every single part of his skin being destroyed all over again. 

He can hear something trying to break through the noises of distress he’s making. 

A dim light fills the room, there’s a warm hand on his cheek. 

This is not how it usually goes. 

 

Greg’s face appears, as Mycroft begins to hyperventilate. 

Mycroft can’t hear the other man, but reading his lips he can see that the other man is saying his name. Mycroft shakes his head; he’s cold but burning at the same time. 

Greg’s voice comes into focus, though still slightly distant. 

He’s calling Mycroft, telling him it’ll be okay. 

Mycroft wants to scream that the acid has burned through the material of his trousers, that it’s soaking into his leg, destroying every millimetre of skin in its path. 

A hand on each cheek, and Greg’s face is clearer. He’s speaking almost calmly, calling Mycroft awake, properly awake. 

Mycroft gasps as he begins to breathe again. Heavy, laboured breaths that ache. 

“C’mere, love. C’mere, please Myc.” Greg’s trying to keep his voice calm, Mycroft recognises it, “S’okay, love. S’alright.” 

 

The phantom burning is gone now, but in its wake, Mycroft feels weak. 

Greg helps him to sit up in bed, and then he is enveloped in warm, strong arms. 

There’s silence between them, Mycroft’s still getting his breath back, and Greg is giving him time. 

Greg presses gentle kisses on Mycroft’s cheek. One of his hands move up to run through Mycroft’s hair, slowly and evenly; grounding him. 

Something Greg used to do on the rare occasions when Mycroft used to have nightmares _before_. 

 

“You’re safe with me.” Greg whispers into Mycroft’s ear, kissing his cheek again. 

And Mycroft knows it’s true. “I-I apologise” 

Greg holds him closer, “No apologies. I said we’d do this together, and we will. _Together_.” 

Tears prick at Mycroft’s eyes. He’s spent eight months waking up in a cold, empty bed. Spent eight months screaming himself awake. Eight months dealing with the aftermath by himself. 

Greg holds him steady, resting their foreheads against each other. 

“Breathe with me.” He murmurs. Mycroft does, he follows Greg even breaths. 

Inhale, hold, exhale. Repeat. 

He can feel some of the tension leaving his body as they continue. 

“That’s it, love. S’alright.” 

 

Mycroft reaches forward, presses his lips against Greg’s. 

Greg cradles his head in his hands like he’s precious. He presses back against Mycroft, kissing him so gently and slowly that Mycroft’s head begins to spin. 

This is what he needed, he realises. This is what he needed every single night, every day. 

He didn’t have this, because he was foolish and hid away. 

“Gregory…” Mycroft whispers, wrapping his arms around the man, longing for him. 

“C’mere.” Greg murmurs, guiding Mycroft to sit astride his thighs. Greg smiles lovingly at him, his brown eyes are almost hypnotising, they watch him as though he’s the only person in the world. 

“I love you, Gregory.” Mycroft caresses Greg’s cheeks, leaning forwardto kiss him again. 

Greg’s hands trail slowly up and down Mycroft’s back, he kisses back without any rush. 

“I love you too.” He manages against Mycroft’s lips, Mycroft can feel him smiling before he takes an opportunity to deepen the kiss. 

Greg responds enthusiastically, “I’ve missed you.” He confesses when they break apart for a breath. 

“And I you.” Mycroft tangles his fingers in Greg’s hair. 

Greg holds Mycroft close, “Together, alright?” 

Mycroft makes eye contact with Greg, the man’s eyes open and honest.

Mycroft nods, “Together.” He promises, a sense of peace that he’s been missing for eight months washes over him. 

He means every word. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you want to contact me I'm lostallsenseofcontrol on tumblr/pillowfort/dreamwidth  
> I'm also @lostallsenseof1 on twitter.


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